by Allan Massie
Don't forget however that this Empire is formidable. It represents a great military force. Fortunately, for much of its frontier, it is divided from us by the torrid wastes of a great desert, that desert across which the vainglorious millionaire, Marcus Crassus, who was so eager to emulate his fellow-triumvirs, Pompey and Caesar, marched his legions, leaden-footed and faint from thirst, to the carnage of Carrhae. Crassus should be a warning to all Roman generals. 'What a fool!' you will say, and you will be right . . . Did he think his fortune proved that the Gods loved him? Yet all legend and history teach us of the Gods' jealousy. Hubris and Nemesis - all men of power should dwell on these words - but the wretched Crassus was too busy with his Account Books to read the Poets.
The existence of the desert means that the Parthians (who are wiser than Crassus) hardly constitute a threat on the southern marches of our Empire; the desert lies between us, horrid, life-denying, trackless sands, godless waste - it makes me shudder to think of it. The northern fringe is a different matter. There, Armenia juts into the Parthian Empire, like a peninsula, and invites attack. Such invasion, if successful, would open the road to the Asiatic heartland so vital to us: Cappadocia, Bithynia, Lycia would all be exposed, and the Parthians would be established on the shores of the Black Sea, even threatening the Mediterranean.
Rome must therefore control Armenia. That is the first rule of our eastern policy. Easier said than done however! Armenians are difficult, unruly, treacherous and xenophobic. They are mostly Highlanders given to quarrels among themselves which are only momentarily stilled in the face of foreign invasion. The land is mountainous, bitterly cold in winter (be sure to wear sheepskins), swept by snow-laden winds; harsh and unrewarding too in their dry summers. Few Romans are happy there, for it is utterly alien. Yet nowhere is of greater strategic importance, and great trade routes cross it too.
I have thought it best to leave it more or less independent, while making sure that its king is friendly. Antony chose it as his base for his Parthian War, and though he thereby avoided the disaster which befell Crassus, his retreat was ignominious enough. His men suffered terribly in the passage of the Tabriz mountains. The Armenians gleefully snapped at his flanks and rearguard, battles had to be fought daily, horrid scrambling affairs, and stragglers were nipped off, killed and mutilated. As you know he had the gall to celebrate a Triumph for his Armenian campaign (quite illegally) in Alexandria, but the truth was his war achieved nothing and did great harm to our prestige.
From the start, I was convinced of the folly of imitating either Crassus or Antony; yet I knew we had to resume our old influence in Armenia, and wipe out the disgrace these two rash idiots had brought on our arms. The question was: how to do it? And you can imagine, it perplexed me for some time. I resolved to be patient. Then I saw my chance.
Artaxes, King of Armenia, was a fox, an acrobatic fox, I may say, for his policy was to play off the two Empires that threatened to dominate him. However, I got information that his own authority was precarious, and realizing this himself he chose to try to bolster it by making a formal alliance with the Parthians. Now the strength of our position is simply this: many Armenians fear and hate Parthia far more than they do us. The reason is simple: Parthia is near and familiar, Rome itself distant and strange to them.
I was wintering on Samos - you have been there and know its delights - when I learned of his plans. I at once sent agents into Armenia to ascertain the strength of the opposition to Artaxes and offer them our help.
Events then began to move quickly. Artaxes called on the Parthians for aid. They sent in an army commanded by the son of the Emperor Phraates (likewise called Phraates), and a tribe of Armenian rebels took the young Phraates prisoner. Their instinct was to blind and mutilate the boy, according to their charming custom, but fortunately one of my agents, a Greek called Philip, learned of his capture and took it upon himself to offer the Highlanders a great sum of gold if they would hand the boy over to him. In doing this of course he exceeded his authority, but I would urge on you the importance of having agents prepared to use their initiative. Naturally, the Highlanders demanded to see the gold first, but when it was produced were delighted with the bargain. (Philip told me that one of them pleaded to be allowed 'to mutilate him just a little. One ear at least.') The poor boy, brave enough in battle, but absolutely overcome by the unusual nature of his experience, fell into our arms with relief.
While these negotiations were going on, another Parthian prince arrived in Samos. This was Tiridates, a half-brother of the Emperor, with in his opinion a good claim to the throne. I have never understood the Parthian laws of succession, and know no Roman who does. Tiridates was younger than Phraates (the Emperor) but based his claim on the fact that he had been born while his father was a reigning monarch and Phraates hadn't. 'I was born in the purple, you see, in the purple,' he repeated over and over again in a whining, canting voice that irritated me extremely. Apparently however this claim carried some weight with Parthians, and perhaps this sort of nonsense is endemic to hereditary kingdoms where ability is valued less than birth. It seems of course quite remarkably foolish to us Romans.
What's more I disliked Tiridates, a lean squinting fellow, given to lewd conversation in appalling Greek. Still he could obviously be useful, one mustn't let personal animosity cloud one's judgement, and I ordered that he be treated with whatever honours were thought suitable for royalty. I rather liked young Phraates on the other hand. Once he had recovered from his nervous crisis, brought on by his capture, he was a pleasant youth, with something, it occurs to me, of dear Lucius' charm, though without his good sense. I couldn't imagine either Phraates or Tiridates making a satisfactory ruler, but that was no business of mine, except in so far as I intended to impose my will on Parthian foreign policy.
Meanwhile I waited to hear from Philip. You may be surprised that I should have chosen to employ a freedman in so delicate a diplomatic affair, even though you have been brought up to be free of many of the prejudices of our class, but I have found that Greeks are adept at any underhand or undercover business, and he had been recommended to me by another trusted agent. I had though another reason for choosing him. The situation in Armenia was so fluid and so fertile in opportunities for mischief that there were few Roman nobles I would have cared to trust. They might have found occasion to proclaim inconvenient Republican notions - from a position of strength. As I have often told you, I have ever been on my guard against the seductive cry of Liberty - which generally means demanding a licence to feather the crier's nest. A freedman, owing everything to me, and being nothing without my support, was a more suitable intermediary. I commend this policy to you. Besides, a Greek can undertake action such as a Roman nobleman should disdain.
I didn't plan the subsequent murder of Artaxes. It was no business of mine what the Armenians did with their King. Indeed, in some ways, it would have suited me to receive him in exile - there is much to be said, when dealing with client-states, for having an alternative king in baulk. However, Philip made me aware that Artaxes was very deeply committed to Parthia, and had even made plans to retire there (for like all prudent tyrants he had made provision for a change of fortune). He told me too that feeling against the King ran high. His rule had been bloody and treacherous and all through the Tardiz mountains were to be found men sworn to avenge the murder of their friends or kinsmen. It seemed best therefore to leave him to the mercies of his countrymen. Armenians are not given to tenderness and his death agony was prolonged and painful. It was also highly popular; when the King's body was displayed to the people of Erzerum, they fell on it with glee and tore it apart.
Some clans remained loyal to the memory of the dead King and proclaimed his son. Our allies asked me to send troops to maintain order. I thought it best to entrust command to your stepfather, Tiberius, then a young man (if you can believe it), for I was still cautious lest the heady wine of Armenia go to a general's head; but I was careful to give him an experienced council of advise
rs such as I have now provided for you. We secured the situation and set Tigranes, the late King's brother, on the throne. He had long resided in Rome and seemed a man of decent mediocrity, though, as you know, we have had trouble with him since. Kingship does go to a man's head.
You have asked why I didn't make Armenia a Roman province. I thought of doing so, but desisted for two reasons. First, I had no wish to perturb the other client-kings in the East (though I thought ail might benefit from a contemplation of Artaxes' fate). Second, I had observed the character of Armenia and couldn't believe the Armenians would submit tranquilly to direct rule. They would be blind to its benefits and alert to their loss of liberty. They are proud, resentful, untrustworthy and clever. They would make awkward subjects. Better, I thought, to leave them in a state of grateful and conditional self-government. They should be free to be ruled by a native king so long as they did not abuse that freedom and remained loyal to Rome. Artaxes' fate would be a warning to subsequent kings. This is still my opinion.
Having established a friendly government in Armenia I was able to turn my attention to Parthia. I assured Phraates that I had no desire for anything but good relations with his great Empire. I told him I was honoured by his son's presence in my household and hoped that the boy would enjoy a glorious future. I added that his half-brother Tiridates was urging a course of action which didn't, at the moment, seem to hold out advantages for either Rome or Parthia; though of course things could change. I informed him that I proposed to despatch an embassy led by my stepson Tiberius Claudius Nero to discuss matters of disagreement between the two greatest Empires in the world.
'There is however,' I added, 'one cause of grievance which makes it difficult for Rome to resume friendly relations with Parthia. You retain standards and trophies taken from the armies led by Crassus and Antony. Their loss was a disgrace which Rome burns to avenge. I believe you may also still hold
Roman soldiers taken captive in these campaigns. Rome cannot rest easy while Roman citizens languish in foreign lands.'
I ended with a flourish of the peacocking compliments which delight Orientals, and which I should advise you always to employ.
Phraates was alarmed by the shift in the balance of power and by my veiled threats concerning Tiridates. He welcomed the embassy, more especially because his brother proved to command more support in the Empire than we had believed. So Phraates was eager to conclude a Treaty and agreed to my demands after less than the usual long-drawn-out argument. The standards were handed over to Tiberius who made a dignified speech (though I was told that he used so many old-fashioned expressions that his translator was baffled; that won't surprise you, we have always had fun with your stepfather's archaic pedantry, haven't we . . . ?)
The recovery of the standards was a great achievement. Not a drop of Roman blood was spilled. But the standards were themselves soaked in the blood of Crassus' and Antony's folly.
I hope this account will be valuable to you, darling boy. It will furnish you with much necessary background information. You must combine strength, subtlety, caution and imagination in dealing with Orientals, and you must try to conceal the natural distaste we feel for them. I have no doubt you will succeed . . .
Reading that letter now plunges me into renewed grief for Gaius, so cruelly torn from me in his full flower. And I recall too the return of the prisoners. There were even a dozen survivors of Crassus' army, old men who had suffered almost forty years as slaves and lost all hope of seeing Italian skies again. Three whom I talked to had almost forgotten the use of Latin . . .
Their faces rise to haunt me as I brood on Tiberius' letter from Germany. Then I was sturdy enough to overcome my natural reluctance and welcome them. I could not do so now. Is it guilt, for after all it was I who despatched Varus, or merely the softer sentiments of age? These soldiers of Crassus and Antony had been robbed of life even more completely than if they had been killed in battle, for they had been forced through their long years of slavery to contemplate what they had lost. How, I wondered even then, would they greet their generals in the Shades? And what will Varus' soldiers have to say to me?
Nobody questions the morality of war, or almost nobody. I have never doubted Rome's mission. Even if I had, Virgil's words would have allayed my doubts. Yet I have seen too much of war not to feel its cruelty, or to retain any belief in military glory. Accursed term! I have come to detest generals who delight in war. I prefer Tiberius, my dear dour Tiberius, to Julius Caesar who delighted in battle because it gave him opportunity to win glory and exhibit his genius. I owe something to Caesar, but my life's work has been to repair the destruction wrought by that genius.
SIX
I remained on Samos till the spring, for I have always loved islands. The Parthian settlement brought me peace of mind and there were now matters of interest and pleasure to divert me. I received there an embassy from India. They brought me as a gift a striped cat which they called 'tiger', about the size of a lion, but more graceful and, they said, more dangerous. It was the first ever seen in Europe and I delighted in its beauty. The forests of their land, the ambassadors told me, are rich in tigers; villagers fear them, for they kill their cattle and goats, and sometimes turn maneaters. Some of those with me were eager that my tiger be displayed in battle in the arena, but I refused to entertain the suggestion. Its caged beauty disturbed me, as well as delighting, but I would not have it made the sport of the mob.
In spring I crossed to Athens. The weather was benign, flowers bloomed, wisteria and jasmine tumbled from the walls, mingling with roses, and, best of all, Virgil was waiting for me. He was drawn and ill, his face lined with the experience of pain, but we ate young lamb and kid and drank the resin-flavoured wine of Greece, and it seemed as if, with returning warmth, his health improved. It was a relief for me to be able to discard the cares of State for a short while, and talk of poetry and philosophy.
I asked if 'The Aeneid' was finished.
'One never knows enough,' he said.
It was in pursuit of knowledge - the quest which alone distinguishes man from brutes - that we travelled to Eleusis to be admitted to the Mysteries. I hesitated to do this. All good Romans are nervous of foreign gods and goddesses, and though one does not like to compare the deities of Greece with the disgusting cults of Egypt and Syria, everything I had heard of the service of the Great Goddess disquieted me. Our Roman Gods are either familiar, with local habitations, and a long heritage, or they appeal to the lucid light of Reason. We do of course retain some aspects of our ancient religion, the origins of which are unknown and the exact purpose often too, but these are hallowed for us by their long association with our ancestors, even wild ceremonies, like the Feast of the Luparcal when men dress in skins of wolf and goat, and run round the Palatine Hill whipping every woman they meet to cure her of barrenness; this Feast is of course time-honoured. It would disgust us if we did not know that our ancestors had practised it so long. Even so, we no longer believed in its efficacy. It has become in a strange way a sort of sport. Our lack of belief can be demonstrated by the fact that Livia and I, even when we still hoped for a child of our own, never considered whether she should take part in the ceremony and expose herself to the test. We continue it because it is good for men to act as their fathers did.
Our religion is a matter of duty and reciprocal obligation. It is informed with light. So are the Olympian Gods of Greece, who are mostly our own Gods under a different name. Thus our Jupiter becomes their Zeus, our Juno their Hera, our Diana their Artemis, and our Mars their Ares. But Greek religion is also rich in the mystery cults, which are not masculine and reasonable like our Roman ones, but feminine and emotional. They speak with a strange music to parts of our nature that we do not, and cannot, know. All Romans fear them in their hearts, and, without Virgil, I do not think I would have gone to Eleusis.
We approached the valley in the late afternoon. It was surprisingly small and green, and large pines glowed with a deep greenness in the golden light
of the westering Apollo. Soon he would decline below the mountains and leave Earth to the Goddess. The beauty of the scene caught at my heart, and I was impressed by the silent reverence of the troops of worshippers. My doubts were allayed: there was no fearful frenzy here.
'What do you seek?' a priest asked at the gate of the chapterhouse to which we had been led.
'We seek truth,' Virgil answered.
'Enter.'
Our clothes were taken from us and we bathed, and were anointed with sweet-smelling unguents, and were given saffron-coloured robes. All this was performed in silence, and, though the rooms were crowded, there was no noise but the shuffling of feet and the rustle of vestments.
'You must clear your mind of the past if you wish a vision of the future,' the priest said when we were ready.
For two days we prayed and fasted, and drank only the pure water of the Springs, obeying the silence still enjoined on us. I watched Virgil carefully, and in doing so began to understand something of the mystery of the poetic spirit. He was emptying himself of all but the desire to imbibe knowledge.
On the third night we were led out after dark. We proceeded between lines of torches, held by chanting initiates. The moon was up and the temple of the Goddess of Mysteries shone candid in its pure light. Shadows dappled the earth which was still warm under our bare feet. The chanting grew more resonant as we advanced: stranger, wilder, as if it came from a great distance, recalling what we had never known and yet seemed always to have known.
A priestess stood at the portico of the temple, a flamen raised in her right hand. She spoke in a soft and sibilant voice. 'Are you prepared?' A cry of assent rose.
'Here,' she whispered, 'is neither life nor death, past nor future, but the eternal present. Here is neither rich nor poor, bond nor free, but the immortal soul. Here, for a passage of time that belongs to all time, we offer you escape from the thralldom of the body and union with the Goddess who is the primal source of life, from whom all things grow, without whom is dearth and death.'
